Brambleton Ch. 08: New Years in Philadelphia

The New Year’s dinner at Judge Atherton’s Philadelphia mansion was, in most ways, similar to the hunt banquet Matt had, with trembling trepidation, attended plastered to Perry’s comforting side at Ravensworth at Thanksgiving. The ostentatiously large and opulently furnished and decorated--still for Christmas--dining room was the same, as was the glitter of silverware, fine china, and tinkling crystal.

There even were servants here, stealthily moving around, doling out a never-ending parade of rich food and topping up wine glasses. One of them was Emmet, pulling double duty at table with a serving bowl and wearing white gloves--and with the cast-down eyes of “one who serves.” Only his tight black trousers, clearly showing the bulge of his crotch brought back to Matt’s mind how much he was in thrall to the big black man. Emmet hadn’t carried through on bringing others in for a sex string, but Matt hadn’t lost interest in what Emmet could do by himself for three days and nights.

The main difference in the atmosphere of this room from that of the hunt banquet at Ravensworth was the number of people at the table. The table was nearly as large as the one at Ravensworth, but there seemed to be miles separating the different little groups that constituted Atherton’s family and the one extra person at the table--Matt--who the others all were taking surreptitious looks at when they thought he wasn’t looking, all of them wondering just who the hell he was and what he was doing at their New Year’s Eve dinner. One of them, though, Matt noticed, giving the claimed architect, although much too young looking to be that, a more knowing and speculative look than the others.

But what was really different from the hunt banquet was the decibel rating in the room. At Ravensworth, the diners could have been considered downright rowdy, just a few dinner rolls short of a food fight, with all having a jolly old time. Here, in the Philadelphia mansion of Judge Atherton, each click of a fork or ting of a tooth on the rim of a wine glass rang out like a shot.

Who was at the table--and who was not--accounted for the silence. At the table, in addition to Judge Atherton, sitting at the head of the table, with, at his insistence, Matt sitting at his right, were, on one side, grouped close together, the judge’s daughter, Miriam, and her husband, Rick, and their two young daughters, whose names Matt never could quite pin down. And across the table from them, but a few feet farther away, was another group of four: the judge’s other daughter, Rachel, and her husband, Tim, and their teenage son, Ryan, and a slightly younger daughter, again name escaping Matt, whose world revolved around men rather than woman.

That didn’t mean, though, that he hadn’t noticed that Atherton’s younger daughter, Miriam, had been giving him “the eye” ever since they sat down to the table, Matt having avoided as long as he could coming down to the cocktail hour before the meal. Her husband, Rick, was also giving him the same form of “eye.”

What was ever-present at this particular meal because of her absence was the woman who should have been sitting at the opposite end of the table from the judge.

When Matt had arrived earlier that afternoon from Brambleton, the judge had met him on the staircase and almost breathlessly and, with great excitement, had taken Matt’s arm and pulled him up the stairs, leaving Emmet standing in the foyer holding Matt’s suitcase.

“You can take that to the north bedroom, second door on the left, Emmet. Matthew will be coming with me for the moment.”

Atherton nearly dragged Matt into a large bedroom on the back of the house, overlooking a long formal garden. He pushed Matt down on the end of the bed in a sitting position and then started pacing back and forth along the foot of the bed, undoing his tie and his shirt and moving on to removing his trousers as he spoke in an excited voice.

“She’s gone.”

“She?” Matt repeated.

“She. The witch. Ding dong, the witch is dead. My wife is gone--at long last. She’s filing for divorce. Has flown out to Nevada. I’m not contesting it, of course.”

“You and your wife are getting a divorce?”

“Yes, Matthew. She’s got a young man. Isn’t that rich? Well, so do I. That’s why she wanted just the family here to Christmas, to tell us all. That she was leaving me. She sounded like I should be mortified. She acted like I would balk at being the one filed against, but I told her I’d do anything she wanted. I did try to act the part of someone just wanting her to be happy, even though what I really want is the bitch gone for good. But I’m free to do as I like now. I waited . . .”

He was rambling on. He also was down to his socks. And he had a hard on--or at least what passed for a hard with him. Matt knew what he’d want now. Matt wasn’t listening. What was the judge free to do now that he hadn’t already been doing? As far as Matt could tell, the judge pretty much did as he liked as it was.

Atherton sat down on the bed beside Matt, put an arm around his shoulders, cupping the back of Matt’s head and turning his face to where they could kiss. With his other hand he started to undress Matt. Matt knew better than to help him with that. This part seemed to be what aroused the judge the most, and it did seem to be helping his cock to stand up straighter. At least Matt didn’t have to wear women’s clothes for this ritual, which the judge had made him do twice in the last week they had been together.

When this was done, the judge leaned over and took Matt’s cock in his mouth and gave him suck. This was the time that Matt could reach around and take the judge’s cock in his hand and slow stroke him. Atherton had brought packets of condoms and a bottle of lube to the bed when he’d sat down. His lubed fingers went under Matt’s balls and between his legs. This was Matt’s cue to slit open the condom packet, extract the disk, and crown Atherton’s cock. It wouldn’t be hard long, and he’d fire off fast--and a bit weakly. So there wouldn’t be much in the way of preliminaries. Although during their first time, Atherton had been strong, it had been with the help of pills, and he had noticeably less vigor as the weeks went on.

He hadn’t lost interest, though. And it was Matt’s job to see that he had a good time. Matt would be taken care of afterward--to the extent that the judge took care of him at all.

“Now,” the judge murmured, and Matt raised his hips over the judge’s lap and Atherton held his cock erect, it’s bulb at Matt’s entrance while Matt lowered his channel on the cock. He didn’t put his full weight on the older man; he leaned forward and grabbed his ankles with his hands and put weight on the balls of his feet, rocking back and forth on the cock as the judge, holding him by the waist, also rocked back and forth, groaning, giving sounds of sexual pleasure.

When Atherton had come in the exclamation of an “Oh, shit, fuck yes”--virtually the only swear words Matt ever heard the man utter--Matt carefully moved off the cock and to the side. Atherton embraced him again and turned his face, finding the same position where they started. They kissed, while the judge took Matt’s cock in his lube-slicked hand and began to stroke him off.

This was when the judge was at his strongest. He held Matt in a vice-hold embrace, while Matt started to breathe heavily and to pant and to writhe under the relentless stroking of his cock--until, with a gasp, he came.

To some extent it was an act. But the old man did know how to bring Matt to an ejaculation with his hand, sometimes rhythmically pressing and releasing on his piss slit with a thumb and other times working his pinky inside the slit. And Atherton seemed to enjoy the ritual encounters immensely, as when they weren’t kissing, he was telling Matt how beautiful his body was and how much the judge enjoyed being with him.

Thus, later in the evening when Matt joined the family for dinner at the table with the missing chair at one end, the younger children--perhaps with the exceptions of the teenaged grandson, who looked from his grandfather to this young, blond stranger with a bit of question and speculation showing in his face--were just happy that their grandfather appeared so happy, even if no one but him was speaking, and then only occasionally and in short statements. Two of the adults looked less than happy. The daughter, Miriam, was so smitten with the handsome young man who was the architect restoring the burned-out wing of Brambleton that she didn’t notice the worry on the other adults’ faces. And her husband, Rick, was looking at Matt with the same slitted-eye interest that the judge did.

As they rose from the table--not before 10:00 p.m., as, of course, they dined at the formal hour, and the children were arguing about which, if any of them, were going to be permitted to stay up and watch the new year ushered in on the television, Atherton leaned over and whispered to Matt, “We’ll go ahead and go upstairs. I want to ring in the New Year inside you.”

Matt would be surprised if the judge could get it up again today, but he was calling the shots, so Matt just climbed the stairs with Atherton as the children buzzed around, headed toward the basement recreation room, exuberant that they all had been given permission to stay up, while the four adults, each with a different expression on his or her face, watched the judge and his young architect climb the stairs together.

Atherton bade Matt to shower first. When he came out of the master bath, with a towel around him, the judge, in a robe, stopped in passing and embraced him and kissed him.

“We celebrate tonight,” he whispered. He showered with the door to the bathroom open, and Matt lay in the center of the bed and watched him. He was still a handsome man. And he was trim and well-muscled for a man his age. And hung. He must have filled out eight and a half or nine when he was younger, Matt thought.

Matt had seen the judge open a medicine chest and take some pills before he went into the shower. And he did a double take when the man stepped out of the shower. More like nine hard, Matt thought as the man walked toward him, naked and toweling off. Matt then knew what the pills the judge had selected had been for, and he worried whether the judge’s heart could take what was coming.

But it wasn’t his call. He had been bought and paid for, and he fully understood where he fit into the scheme of things--all because of his love of a house.

Matt looked around for the condoms and lube, but, although Atherton produced the lube, he said, “Tonight will be the way I like it. It’s just going to be you and me now. Flesh on flesh, nothing between us except ecstasy.”

A murmur of “Perhaps we shouldn’t . . .” didn’t have any effect on him. And, in any event, Matt was busy trying to process the “just you and me” now statement. Was this about the divorce and what he meant about being free to do as he liked?

They fucked in the center of the bed, with two pillows under the small of Matt’s back, his legs spread wide, and the judge crouched between Matt’s thighs and fucking him missionary style. Matt didn’t have to act challenged to the limit this time. The cock was huge and hard as a rock, and it punished his channel as it hadn’t done since that first time. And it throbbed. With nothing between it and Matt’s channel walls, Matt could feel the throbbing vein. And there was no give; it was rock hard.

The judge fired off fairly quickly. But he didn’t lose the hard on. Matt pushed him over on his back. He was panting hard, but he was prodding Matt to reverse on him and when he did, Atherton took Matt’s cock in his mouth. Matt sucked on the judge’s still-hard cock. Atherton’s sound of enjoyment encouraged Matt to continue sucking. At length Matt came.

He was ready to call it quits then, but Atherton was pulling at him again. “Ride me. Like a cowboy. I want to come again.”

And he was still hard and gigantic. Matt was worried for him, but he was the boss. Matt was as gentle as he could be as he straddled the judge’s hips, facing his head and slowly rode the cock. At length he felt the weak flow of a second ejaculation inside him. He rolled off to the other side of the judge’s body as they heard fireworks going off outside of the mansion’s walls to mark the advent of the new year.

The judge turned on his side and pulled Matt’s butt into his belly and entered him again with a cock that would not go soft. “Stay with me a few hours,” Atherton whispered. “This is what I’ve been looking forward to. You are so sweet and young and yielding. Just what an old man needs. I want to be inside you as long as I’m hard.”

Even it if doesn’t go down for a week? Matt wondered.

He lay there in the old man’s arms, listening for the steady breathing, waiting for him to be deep in sleep. He was still hard and buried deep up in Matt’s channel. At last, the breathing was steady--raspy but regular enough that Matt knew he was asleep.

He slowly pulled away from him and silently climbed out of the bed. He redressed and left the room, shutting the door slowly behind him, trying to click home the mechanism as quietly as possible. He turned to pad down the hall to his own room at the far side of the house, barefoot and carrying his shoes under his arm.

The son-in-law, Miriam’s husband, Rick, who Matt remembered having been introduced to and told was also the family lawyer, was standing half in and half out of a doorway down the hall, between where Matt stood and where he had to go. He was wearing just sleeping shorts, and was a muscular, hairy, dark-haired man in his late thirties or early forties. Matt had first seen him because of the gleam of the gold medallion on a chain that was nestled in bulging pecs reflected off the ceiling light in the hall. He was frowning, but he also was hard. Matt could clearly see the line of his cock inside his sleeping shorts. Matt took his breath in. Under other circumstances, this could be a man for him, not least because there was an aspect of cruelty about him.

The son-in-law said nothing. Having seen Matt leaving the judge’s bedroom, he just gave Matt a hard look and withdrew into his own bedroom and shut the door.

Back in his room, Matt didn’t bother to turn on the light. He stripped, leaving his clothes on the floor inside the door; went straight to the private bath, turning on the light there; and entered the shower. No sooner did he have the water on than he was being crowded from behind and shoved into the back, tiled wall of the shower. Muscular black arms encircled him and a voice hissed at his ear.

“You were with the old man a long time.”

“I had to wait until he went to sleep. Oh, shit. Oh shit.” Matt moaned as he felt the fingers digging up into his channel.

“You’re as loose as a ten-dollar whore down there.” Emmet growled.

Matt’s first instinct was to say that he had become no better than a ten-dollar whore, but what he answered, with a groan, was, “The judge took Viagra or something. He was rock hard and the size of a horse. I’m sure he reamed me well.”

“Just as well,” Emmet muttered. He lifted and turned Matt to where Matt’s back was against the tiles. “Straddle my hips,” Emmet commanded. Matt did so, and Emmet thrust his big, black dick up into Matt’s channel and began immediately to pump. Matt buried his face in the black man’s chest, finding one of Emmet’s nipples with his lips and moaned at the taking by a cock as naturally thick and long as the judge had produced earlier that night and even more vigorous in the stroke.

Matt felt himself being pulled away from the wall, though, and another black man was pushing in between him and the shower wall. Another muscular, hard-bodied man, although taller and thinner than Emmet. Uglier than Emmet, a black of the American south in contrast to Emmet’s Caribbean origin. But none of that mattered. His height was matched to the cock. Another hung black man, although the cock wasn’t thick. It was, however, probably a good ten inches long and curved up in its full erection.

“His name’s Lamont,” Emmet muttered. “Works in the kitchen. Said he’d love to do you together with me. I told you I’d put you on a string, because I knew you wanted it. But you’re such a slut that I knew you’d like this best.”

Matt threw his head back against the stranger’s chest and cried out in surprise and ecstasy as the man started working his cock up inside him on top of Emmet’s.

“Happy New Year, fucker,” Emmet growled.

Matt would have answered, but he was taxed enough just to maintain his breathing. Atherton’s pills hadn’t opened him up nearly enough for this double working of his channels. He panted hard, every bit of his attention focusing on those two black cocks sliding against each other inside his undulating walls.

* * * *

Matt swam up from a deep, erotic dream, reaching over to feel the hardness of the dark chocolate skin of Emmet, only to find no one was there. The smell of the man--no, the men, he remembered now--remained. Similar to that of Dashad. A musky scent of honest sweat and cum. Closing his eyes again, imagining himself not alone, Matt luxuriated in the knowledge that both the sweat and the cum had been for him--repeatedly--in the night. Emmet had laid on the bed watching Matt writhing on top of Lamont for a while, with Lamont on his back and Matt moving on top of him, trying to take in as much of that long cock as he could, and staring up at the canopy of the bed. But then Emmet was below them, straddling Lamont’s closed legs and lifting and spreading Matt’s legs and working his cock in on top of Lamont’s this time--doubling him again. Matt opened his mouth wide in a silent scream, silent because Emmet was stuffing a good part of his fist in Matt’s mouth so that he wouldn’t awaken the rest of the household.

“This is the New Year’s present you want, I know,” Emmet growled. “Two black cocks inside you at once.”

Matt began to work his hips, working with the two men who themselves had just set into a rhythm of their own. After he’d ejaculated, Matt drifted off, exhausted from his long evening, both of the black men still working him like a calliope. When he next woke, he was alone in the bed.

When he realized no one was on top of him, under him, or beside him, Matt’s eyes flew open. It was light in the room. The drapes hadn’t been closed the previous night--there had been no time or opportunity for such niceties--and although the windows on the two walls were covered in a gauzy material, this didn’t hide the high angle of the sun beating its rays in both the north- and the west-oriented tall windows.

Matt looked at his alarm clock. It was slightly after 11:00 in the morning. Of course Emmet and Lamont wouldn’t still be here. They would be several hours into their daily chores. Matt sat up in the bed and stretched. He felt sore and slack still from the fucking of three men last night. And he felt just a bit disgusted with himself for wanting this life so much that he just let them have their way with him. Not Emmet so much, even though he was the rougher and more punishing of the three and also the one who treated Matt with the least respect. That was a difference between Emmet and Dashad. Dashad treated Matt like he was a treasure and Emmet just used him. But what Emmet gave him was so far superior in satisfaction to what Archibald Atherton gave him in the way of sex that Matt knew that he’d run to Emmet for pleasure whenever he could. And the doubling had been so unexpected. Matt had already forgotten what he’d said to Emmet about liking a string. He’d said nothing about doubling, however. Emmet had said he’d like it while they were doing it to him. Emmet had been right. He also was right, Matt thought, that he had become a slut for sex.

What Archie Atherton gave Matt was inclusion in the rewards of his wealth and position. And he gave Matt access to Brambleton. It was a bitter pill to take about himself, but Matt would not shy away from the fact that he would give the judge anything he wanted from him just as long as Matt had access to Brambleton. He was a whore to a building.

What Emmet gave him was what his body needed and wanted, though.

So be it. He laughed, climbed out bed and stretched, making a quick survey of all his muscles and finding his thighs and ass being the big complainers, although he was having nothing to do with any suggestions on what he could do to prevent that. He padded off to the shower, picked out a pair of jeans and a polo shirt to wear, took a big breath, practiced a friendly smile, and stepped out into the bedroom hall corridor.

Silence. It was less than silent; there was a heaviness to the air like no sound would even dare try to filter through to the hallway through the heavy damask wall coverings and the Oriental rug running the whole way to the far end of the corridor.

He stood there for a moment, feeling the oppression of the aloneness of it and then jumped a bit, and whimpered in gratitude when he heard the click of a door at the far end of the hallway and the figure of a gray-haired man of substantial girth coming out of Archie’s room.

And that’s the name Matt associated with the room: Archie. The judge had been urging Matt to use his nickname for some time and it seemed almost a seal on the relationship and on Matt’s immediate future that he found himself thinking of him in terms of “Archie” now.

The man at the end of the hall, dressed in a dark suit and holding a black leather bag in one hand, brought the other hand to his face when he saw Matt in the hall and placed a finger on his lips. He then gestured toward the stairs leading down to the first floor, and Matt understood that the man wanted to talk with him, but not here.

In the foyer below, the man identified himself as Dr. Billings, Archie’s Philadelphia doctor. Matt was eventually to come to know that the judge had a doctor on call in Virginia too--and one, like this one, who would make house calls for a man of Archie’s stature.

“Are you a member of the family?” Billings asked.

“No. Just a friend--from Virginia.” And sensing that this was perhaps too revealing of an answer, he added, “I’m the architect for the house on his Virginia estate. One of the wings was burned out and he wants to restore it. He’s anxious to get started on the project and so invited me here over Christmas and New Year’s so we could discuss the final plans.”

Matt didn’t know if his delivery was off or if he was giving too much information or if he had just brought up the architect angle too late, but the doctor gave him a knowing look and said, “Ah” in such a way that told Matt that the doctor understood far more than he was being told.

“He’s resting comfortably now,” the doctor said.

“Judge Atherton? I saw you coming out of his room? Is he ill?”

“Yes, Judge Atherton. I was called this morning because he was difficult to rouse. If you’re a true friend of his, young man, I suggest you find whatever pills he used last night and toss them out.”

Matt went beet red. “I’m just his architect. Shouldn’t you be talking about this to a member of the family?”

“No members of the family were here when I arrived,” the doctor answered. And, indeed, when Matt went to the kitchen to find somebody--anybody other than him--stirring in this vast, silent house, he learned that the families of both of the judge’s daughters had packed up and were gone by 9:30 that morning.

“And I think I’m telling the right person,” the doctor added, with a sardonic look in his face. “In any case, I wouldn’t recommend any strenuous activity for him for at least three days--and then no swinging on the chandeliers after that. And definitely no enhancing pills. Call me immediately if he has another . . . seizure . . . like this.” The pause on the word “seizure” obviously had been purposeful. The doctor fully understood the nature of the problem and what had caused it.

The doctor was saying the last bit as he was putting on his overcoat and hat, and then he opened the front door and, steeling himself against the wind whipping up the front steps and into the foyer, thrust himself out into the snow.

The next five days were torture for Matt. The house had a couple of those old mammoth grandfather clocks--one in the foyer and one of the stair landing up to the second floor. They weren’t in synch and their irritating ticking thundered through the silent house. If it hadn’t been for the plan work Matt still had to do on the Brambleton blueprints and the preliminary calls he made to Virginia to put the bidding for the restoration project into train, he would have gone mad from the silence and the inaction.

On the first two days, he visited Archie’s dark room, the draperies pulled to encourage the judge to rest, and he glided around near the walls, out of reach of the bed, as Archie begged him to come to the bed and give him sex. The third day he sat on the bed, permitting Archie to embrace him and give him a hand job, and then Matt slowly sucked the judge’s cock to ejaculation while forcing Atherton to remain as immobile as possible.

Matt let the judge side split him on the fourth day, with Matt being careful not to put any weight on the older man or to make Atherton become too active in the taking.

After the judge had come and they were laying stretched out, with Matt cuddled into the judge’s crotch, Atherton whispered, “You want to get back to Virginia--to Brambleton--don’t you?”

“I’m anxious to get started on the restoration as soon as possible, yes. But I’ll be wherever you want me to be.”

“You love the place don’t you?”

Matt turned his face to Atherton’s and they kissed. He meant that to be his ambiguous answer, because he only sensed the “more than me” that the judge didn’t tag on the end of that question.

Taking his lips away from the judge’s--sooner than Atherton obviously wanted, Matt gave him a concerned look and said, “I’ve been wanting to . . . I just didn’t know how to say it. I am so sorry, Archie . . . about the other night. I know your health . . .”

“Shush, don’t say another word, Matthew,” Atherton whispered, putting a finger to Matt’s lips. “It’s all on me. And, even knowing it laid me up for a few days, I would do it all over again. I’ve so wanted to fuck you one more time like I did that first time--on the haystacks. That was glorious. Some day . . . some day I’ll prove to you how much you’ve meant to me--coming to me at this time of life. Being entirely open to letting me have you however I want you. You are so young and arousing--all innocence until we get lost in the fuck. I’ve never had anyone like you. It was worth it. Even if it had killed me.”

Before Matt could respond, Atherton took his lips again in a crushing kiss. After the kiss was over, the judge sighed and said, “The doctor says I’ll be well enough to travel by car tomorrow. So we’ll be off then--back to Brambleton.”

Matt did what he could to contain his excitement, but as soon as he’d managed to withdraw from Archie’s bedroom, he was searching all over the house for Emmet, wanting an outlet for his exuberance and keyed up to a high tension level by four days of silence in the house. He had looked for Emmet before--wanting the release the Emmet could give him--but the big black man had been elusive. It was almost as if he wanted Matt to fully understand that their couplings were entirely at Emmet’s calling and in his control. And that he wanted Matt salivating for it the next time, which, in fact, was the case.

Matt didn’t find him this time, either, so he went to his room. He would take a shower and beat off under the cascading water, bringing whatever relief was possible to himself.

But Emmet had already been told that he would be driving the judge and Matt back to Virginia the next day, and he knew the mood this would put Matt in. He was waiting behind the door in Matt’s room and when Matt arrived, Emmet pushed the door shut, picked Matt up from behind, hustled him to the foot of the bed, bent him over on his belly on the bed, stripped his pants and briefs off him, and fucked him hard and long from behind.

When Emmet left the room, Matt was lying prone on his belly on the bed, sucking in a hunk of the bedspread to stifle the cries of passion he’d otherwise have been telegraphing throughout the silent house, and smiling a sloppy grin of fulfillment.

He heard the click of the door, and saw Lamont entering his room. As the tall, gangly kitchen servant was unzipping his trousers and unreeling his long snake of a cock, Lamont murmured, “Emmet sent me up.”

Matt sighed, turned on his back, opened his legs, and stuffed a pillow under the small of his back. He was going to need to be at a “just so” angle to take all of what Lamont had between his thighs in in one slide.

Matt turned his eyes to a window, slowly stroked his own cock, and waited patiently while Lamont stood over him, between his spread legs, worked his own cock hard, and rolled on a condom. A snapping sound broadcast the last adjustment of the latex on the long cock. Matt turned his head and looked at the erection. He moaned his pleasure at knowing that very soon that would be inside him. The man was thin and wiry, his face ugly, but that black cock was beautiful to Matt.

He held his breath during the long, deep glide inside him of the long, black cock, the channel having been stretched already by Emmet. He knew that this was just part of Emmet’s efforts to control him, but he didn’t care. Different types of effort were going on to control him--the judge with his money and position and close personal attention, and Emmet with big black cocks. But Matt was well past not knowing what he’d do to get the pleasures and the new life beyond the mountains and hollows of Appalachia that he sought.

He looked up into Lamont’s face, but the black man clutching Matt’s waist with long, slender, strong black fingers and pulling on his torso was all business, trying to get as deep inside Matt as possible. Lamont knew from Matt’s passionate cries earlier that the young man Emmet wanted to control liked the deep cocking, and that was something that Lamont could provide. When he began to pump in short, deep strokes, Matt let his hips start moving, meeting the deep thrusts. Other than that, he just stretched out his arms to his sides; turned his head to the window, panting and moaning quietly; and let Lamont do all of the heavy work. Lamont’s stroke was steady and relentless. For whatever time a hung black man had his cock inside Matt, Matt was his. Emmet had discovered this key to Matt, but Matt didn’t care that he had.

He smiled a little smile. He was a slut to black cock. And Lamont had a length to die for. Matt needed to enjoy Lamont when he could. Lamont was from the Philadelphia world. They were on their way back to Brambleton and Matt wouldn’t come back to Philadelphia if he could avoid it. His heart was at Brambleton.

When Lamont was close to finishing him, Emmet came back into the room and sat down on the bed beside Matt. Matt’s back was arched. He was stroking his own cock and was breathing heavily, moaning deeply, his mouth hanging open, every fiber of his being focused on the cock moving deep inside him. Lamont was very much into the fuck now. He was stroking Matt’s belly with the long, slender fingers of one hand, enjoying the image of the black skin caressing the trembling white, smooth hardness of Matt’s belly, reveling over the handsome young man’s complete subjugation to him. His eyes were cast on Matt’s, taking pleasure in the flash of passion in Matt’s eyes from the effect of each steady, deep stroke of the cock. The young white man was beautifully formed, and Lamont was in awe over the power his cock was holding over him. The young man was babbling his total surrender to the black cock. Lamont had never enjoyed control this total over such a desirable, young white man.

Emmet leaned over and stroked Matt’s cheek, murmuring for Matt to look at him and tell him how well fucked he was. Matt turned wild, pleading eyes on him as Emmet turned an “I own your ass” smile on him, smoothed the sweat-streaked hair off Matt’s forehead with one hand, and brushed away Matt’s hand on his own cock with the other and took over the stroking.

Lamont gave a little cry, shuddered, and came. He resumed stroking, slowly though. Under the attention of Emmet’s hand, Matt came with a whimper. Emmet was still wearing that “I own your ass” smile. Matt didn’t expect it to be otherwise.

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A former SR71 jockey, journalist, diplomat, and spy who now writes novels in the mainstream in another, entirely different, facet of his life. Between his two pen names habu and Dirk Hessian, the author has more than 100 GM titles on sale in the marketplace. For illustrated GM stories by habu and his writing partner, Sabb, and their combined writings under the name Shabbu, visit www.barbarianspy.com. Habu's extensive collection of e-books can be found on Amazon, B&N, Allromanceebooks.com, Smashwords, KOBO, etc. He also writes and publishes GM historicals under the name Dirk Hessian.